


So Be It

by writergirl8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Johnlock, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they kiss, he thinks that he couldn't possibly love Sherlock more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Be It

The first time they kiss, he thinks that he couldn’t possibly love Sherlock more.

 

He’s afraid of making a single noise that might shatter whatever moment is occurring. John has spent so much time in pieces, and he doesn’t want to break anything when Sherlock is finally making his stomach curl like this. John has been waiting to feel like this _forever_.

 

The hand that frames John’s cheek is warm, and despite how frantic the kiss is, there’s something so soft about the way Sherlock’s touch feels on John. The ferocity with which John is kissing and being kissed seems so out of place against the soft brushes of Sherlock’s hand against his skin. It cools him and lights him on fire at the same time; his heart battles between the desire to speed up with the fervor of the moment and the desire to slow down because this is so right, so perfect, and he’s never been as content as he is right now.

 

John doesn’t quite know what to do to communicate this to Sherlock, but he’s certainly not going to be using words, so instead he presses a hand into the small of Sherlock’s back and pulls him closer. That’s what John wants more than anything- _closer_. He thinks that he might have just muttered the word against Sherlock’s lips, because Sherlock is nodding and pressing his body even harder against John’s, which John hadn’t known was possible, and no. There’s no possible way that John could love Sherlock any more than he does right in this moment.

 

(OOO)

 

The first time John wakes up to a Sherlock sleeping next to him, he thinks that he possibly couldn’t love Sherlock any more.

 

Sherlock’s curly hair is spilling all over his face, hiding parts of him from John, but John can still see the complete content that is etched across his partner’s face. Even his muscles are more relaxed than they usually are; Sherlock’s body is usually tense and rigid, trying to retain a sense of superiority over the slouchers of the world. But in sleep, he’s looser than John has ever seen him. There’s something effortless and easy about the way that Sherlock holds himself in sleep that makes John wonder exactly how much of Sherlock is real and how much is a show. He’s identified certain parts, and he thinks that he’s identified more than people usually do with Sherlock, but John wants to know _everything_.

 

As Sherlock’s chest moves up and down with his breaths, his hand gripping the pillow case loosely, John makes it his purpose to find out.

 

(OOO)

 

The first time Sherlock cooks breakfast, John thinks that he couldn’t possibly love him more.

 

He stumbles into the kitchen one rainy morning, fully expecting to see his boyfriend boiling the eyeballs that he’s been planning on dissecting “just to check, John.” But, instead, when John finally makes his way to the table, rubbing his eyes blearily, he notices that there’s a carton of eggs resting on the counter, right next to the sizzling frying pan that rests on their stove.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

The words leave his mouth before he can consider them, and even as he is inwardly chastising himself for asking such a stupid question, Sherlock is calmly replying,

 

“Making you breakfast.”

 

This is completely unheard of in 221B. Usually, Mrs. Hudson will come up the stairs in the morning, chirping to thin air that she is _not_ their housekeeper. She’ll leave tea and breakfast for “my boys” and by the time they wake up, all they have to do is reheat the food that has magically appeared on their kitchen table.

 

But this isn’t the same thing. Sherlock isn’t reheating eggs. Sherlock is making eggs.

 

John doesn’t know what to say. He’s never made Sherlock breakfast before; even though they’ve been in a relationship for several months, it had never occurred to John that Sherlock might enjoy something like that. Sherlock is romantic in a more quiet way, and one that nobody, sans John, would even consider to be romantic in the first place. But John can read Sherlock so well, loves him so efficiently, that he can read the small things as clearly as he can read a kiss.

 

Sherlock being romantic is when he and John are on a case and Sherlock mindlessly wraps his coat around John’s shoulders. Sherlock being romantic is when the two of them are at dinner with Lestrade and Sherlock absently runs his index finger along the veins in John’s arm. Sherlock being romantic is when all of the seats in the flat are available and Sherlock chooses to sit right next to John, regardless of how much room there is elsewhere.

 

John doesn’t want to rise from his chair and make Sherlock scamper away, so instead he strains his neck to try to see the extra ingredients that Sherlock is adding to the food. It looks like he’s scrounged some cheese up from somewhere, and that he’s employed the use of a ham that Mrs. Hudson made for dinner a few nights ago. As for the scallions… that’s a true mystery.

 

“Would you mind making some tea?” Sherlock’s voice says, but it can’t be Sherlock because there’s no reason why Sherlock Holmes would be standing in the kitchen, wearing his favorite purple shirt and making his boyfriend breakfast.

 

Unless shagging was _just that good_ last night.

 

“Of course not,” John responds hurriedly, noting how muted Sherlock’s personality feels this early in the morning. It’s like a part of him is still asleep, quiet and content and somehow younger in the bleary light of the morning.

 

But they work silently together in the kitchen and it speaks volumes to how comfortable they are together, how seamlessly they work, and John wants endless mornings like this, smoothly silent and indisputably tender.

 

(OOO)

 

When Sherlock says yes, John thinks that he couldn’t love him more.

 

It’s not a big thing, or even a sudden thing. It takes them a long time, but it makes sense for the two of them because they’ve never needed grand gestures to landmark their significant moments. Just being together is enough; the warmth of John’s hand in Sherlock’s hand or the heady taste of Sherlock’s kiss as it sweeps over John.

 

So when John asks, it doesn’t seem like an important thing even though it is. At least, it is to him.

 

“Do you think we should get married?” he wants to know, staring down at his shoes as they rhythmically hit the pavement below. It’s not coincidental that they’ve just passed a father with his small child, but John hopes that Sherlock thinks that it is.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says shortly.

 

There’s no possible way to react to this- John hadn’t thought out the question before he asked it, really- so he allows his face to remain perfectly still as the answer permeates through his head, getting caught up in his bloodstream and circulating through him. He’s silent for several moments, contemplating this. He needs to come up with a perfect response because he isn’t sure how Sherlock feels about it but, to John, this moment is terribly delicate. He doesn’t want to knock it over by stepping wrong.

 

“Alright,” he says, satisfied with this solution.

 

Sherlock’s hand grips his harder.

 

(OOO)

 

When Sherlock’s eyes narrow on the baby, John thinks that it isn’t possible to love him any more.

 

Molly is hovering nervously, watching the baby like a hawk, which is probably a good thing because John really isn’t sure what to do. He wants to hold the baby, wants to protect it, but he doesn’t have much experience with things as helpless as an actual child. Actually, it doesn’t seem like he has much experience with helpless _anything_. The people that they meet are often helpless to a certain degree, but there’s a difference between a crying adult and a crying baby. The crying adult can hold him or herself up. If John does so much as forget to support the head of this baby, he’s officially dropped the ball and Molly will probably never let him hold it again.

 

 _Her_. Sorry. The baby is a her.

 

But then John looks up and sees the look on Sherlock’s face, something so sweet and thoughtful that he feels, for a moment, like he’s on display. It’s not usually a feeling that he has when Sherlock is looking at him- usually, it’s like the two of them are in their own world. But this time, it’s different. He’s never seen this look, innocence colored in between the hard lines that life has left on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock doesn’t ever look this soft, and John knows that the difference is the little girl that he holds in his arms.

 

“You want a baby,” John says, and it isn’t a question, but Sherlock answers anyways.

 

“With you.”

 

There’s an important distinction between wanting a baby period and wanting to raise a baby with John.

 

Molly has the good sense not to interrupt the moment. She stays silent as John tilts his head at Sherlock, scrutinizing him carefully. And he tries so hard to ignore the way the ardent love that he has for his fiancé takes over every other emotion. It’s too strong, sometimes. He couldn’t love Sherlock any more than he already does because any more love would be far too dangerous.

 

It takes John a couple of tries to speak, not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because his heart is hammering in his chest and he can’t really get his voice to sound like a normal, average, emotionless adult voice like he wants to do.

 

“We should probably start working on that, then.”

 

(OOO)

 

When they get married, John thinks that there is no possible way that he could love Sherlock any more.

 

They’re married when they sign the papers. Nothing else really matters; not a big wedding or rings or a consummation, although that part is nice. They’re married when their signatures are tucked onto a piece of paper, side by side. They’re married when that paper gets filed by the government and they walk out of the building knowing that the rings on their fingers have the weight of something real. A tangible representation of what they’ve just done.

 

They get married because of Victoria.

 

She’s soft and squirmy and the minute that they see her, they fall in love with her short brown hair and tiny hazel eyes. It’s not a logical decision, for once, or a decision that they put a particular amount of research into. It’s just something that hits them while they’re in the middle of a moment. Sherlock holds her and John holds her and it feels like magic that they just so happened to pick up this little girl and realize that she is their little girl.

 

She is four months old and all alone and the people at the agency tell them that if they want her, they have to be married. So they get married.

 

It’s not about not wanting to be married. They’ve been planning on it for years now. But it had never seemed truly urgent, and aside from a few teasing comments from their friends, nobody had tried to push them into it. Sherlock and John had always been unconventional. They had fallen into a relationship without even bothering to announce that they were no longer friends- if people wanted to slap a label on it, they could discover that label in their own time. Perhaps the handholding would clue them in.

 

Marriage hadn’t seemed all that pressing until they were staring into the eyes of their little girl and realizing that they had to be married to have her in their life. At that point, it is just a matter of getting the papers signed. They deal with the emotional implications later, once they have done everything that they need to do and have squared away their affairs with the adoption agency.

 

Within a month, Victoria is theirs.

 

They never regret getting married so spur of the moment, or not having a wedding party, or picking out rings so hastily that Sherlock comments drily that he feels like he has whiplash. As they hold their daughter for the first time, John comments- in a fit of sappiness that he hadn’t realized he held- that this is their family and this is how their family had been supposed to be formed.

 

And so be it.

 

(OOO)

 

Sherlock dresses Victoria for school one morning, and when she walks into the kitchen, John doesn’t think he could love his husband any more.

 

Both of them seem so proud, despite the fact that Victoria is wearing a bright orange jumper with a pink top and red jeans. He hair is smooth, at least, and it dances around her shoulders, straight and clean. The little girl hops into her chair at the table, pushing her father’s work to the side, and Sherlock doesn’t even say anything about that, just picks it up and puts it somewhere else so that it isn’t disturbing anyone.

 

“I dressed her,” says Sherlock redundantly.

 

“Thank you,” John replies, trying not to laugh. He’s torn between bringing Victoria back to her bedroom to get her another outfit and applauding Sherlock for taking the initiative to do the job that is usually John’s assigned job.

 

But he doesn’t necessarily think that Victoria needs to be teased just because her father picked out the first three items of clothing that he saw and threw them on her.

 

“Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

 

“Er… why would you think that?”  


“The face you’re making,” says Sherlocks shortly. “If you’d like to change her, be my guest. I was just trying to make your morning go more smoothly.”

 

It was a nice sentiment. Thoughtful. Helpful. John smiles.

  
“Thank you,” he says genuinely.

 

Sherlock doesn’t smile, but John can see the smile behind his non-smile.

 

(OOO)

 

The boy’s eyes are wide with fear as Sherlock stares him down, cocking an eternally judgmental eyebrow. John doesn’t say anything; his husband is doing all of the work for him, and there’s nothing particularly intimidating about John anymore, anyways. He likes to joke that fatherhood has softened him. He thinks that being so in love with two people- Sherlock and Victoria- has made it easier for him to forgive the world for all of the things that it does to him and to other people.

 

But couldn’t love Sherlock more for what he is doing to this poor boy. Victoria has been talking about him for six months now, gushing about him over dinner at night or on the phone with one of their friends. Her pacing back and forth in her bedroom can be heard all the way downstairs, and it usually occurs when Sherlock’s favorite TV shows are on, while always makes John laugh a little. Sherlock’s posture is at its most upright, back straight as he attempts to strain towards the ceiling and hear about the boy that Victoria is obsessing over.

 

John handles it more calmly, probably because he has more experience with dating due to Harriet’s many girlfriends during her teen years. Yes, he doesn’t like the fact that this boy is waltzing into their daughter’s life and taking her out for a meal, but he knows that it doesn’t really mean anything. He’ll be gone soon enough and then another one will come along and they’ll have to do the whole intimidation thing all over again.

 

“You can lower the gun,” John teases out of the corner of his mouth. Sherlock isn’t actually holding a gun, of course. He’s got his hands pushed together and his fingers folded over each other as he rests his chin on them and stares at Victoria’s date.

 

It’s not loud, but it’s loud enough for the boy to hear. He looks even more nervous than he was before.

 

Victoria floats down the stairs in a pretty dress, her long hair floating behind her. And in spite of the fact that she’s about to go out into the insipid world of dating for the first time, John feels immensely proud of who his daughter has turned out to be.

 

She swoops down to kiss both of her fathers on the cheek before fluttering out the door, her fingers wrapped lightly around the wrist of her date. John can almost feel Sherlock’s discontent as soon as Victoria is out of the house, and he wants to laugh with delight at his husband’s protectiveness of the life that they have built together and the child that they have raised.

“So,” he says, a light smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want to have another one?”

 

(OOO)

 

John thinks that he couldn’t love Sherlock more when he sees the way he dances with their daughter.

 

Having already had his father/daughter dance, John decides to stand to the sidelines and soak up the surreal moment, lit by fairy lights and the occasional softly glowing candle.

 

Sherlock is meticulous, trying as hard as he possibly can to avoid stomping the lovely white princess gown that their little girl is wearing. It’s no easy feat in the rather large skirt that surrounds her, but Victoria looks beautiful and angelic and she glows with happiness as her arms wrap around her father, the heels allowing her to rest her chin on his shoulder.

 

This is their song; a slow lullaby that Sherlock used to play for her when she was a baby. When Victoria had first started playing piano, this had been the song that she had been most desperate to learn. Something about it had ingrained itself into her, and even as a young adult, it had been the song that she associated with her father the most, knowing that he played it to her when she was a child.

 

The recording that they dance to is the both of them playing together, piano and violin meeting in a harmony that makes John ache. He feels like his entire life could be surmised in this one song, played by his husband and his daughter.

 

She laughs as Sherlock stops himself from trodding on her toes just in time. His face doesn’t change as he lurches to a stop, causing an awkward bump in their dance. Victoria, effortlessly gorgeous, pulls him easily into the next part of the dance, whispering something in his ear that is probably sweet and funny and consoling all at once.

 

They like to pretend that they’re in control, but really, their daughter has had them bewitched since she was a little girl, and John knows that the two of them are powerless against her.

 

The song isn’t over yet, but Sherlock kisses Victoria on the forehead before making his way over to John, a lazy smile on his face.

 

“Would you care to dance?” he asks, holding his hand out, and John watches for a moment as Victoria collapses into the arms of her new husband. He nods, not saying anything as he takes Sherlock’s hand and allows Sherlock to pull him close.

 

“I can’t believe we let her get married,” John murmurs, and he feels the deep rumble of Sherlock’s laugh before he sees it.

 

“We should have had a boy,” he says decisively. “There’s far less sentiment that comes with a boy.”

“But then we never would have learned how to braid hair, and where would we be if that happens?”

 

“Ah,” Sherlock concedes. “Good point.”

 

“That’s why you married me,” John reminds him cheerily. “My good points.”

 

“All of your good points,” Sherlock sighs, stooping down so that his voice can tickle John’s ear.  

 

“I love you,” John says. It seems like the right time to say it, this moment. He doesn’t throw the words out idly and neither does Sherlock. They mean too much to the both of them.

 

“I couldn’t love you more,” Sherlock replies.


End file.
